Less Than Perfect
by Child of a Broken Dawn
Summary: Lucas Beineke went to college in Ohio. Wednesday Addams married her childhood sweetheart. By all logic, they never should have met. Too bad Eris has never heard of logic. AU. WxL, anti-WxJ.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I've been having a severe bout of writers' block lately, and decided the best way to get over the rough patch was to just power through it. This story has been in the works for a while now, so I'm going to give it a shot. I obviously don't own any of the characters.

* * *

_What choice do I have?_

Reprehensible as it was, the young woman couldn't think anything else as she stood in the tiny, windowless room. The space was rather austere for its purpose; even the brochure had made it out to be more elaborate: _Bride's dressing room_. Of course, for this bride the discrepancy would have been a plus- on any other day.

A table, a chair, and two mirrors, one vanity-style above the table and one full-length. And floral wallpaper, and all the time in the world to be alone with one's thoughts.

She tore her gaze away from the silvery glass for a moment, attempting to distract herself in the other details. But no patterns stood out from the stupid cabbage roses on the walls, or the striped border around the door frame. And the bottles of makeup and lotion on the table bored her as much as they had an hour ago, while she was getting ready.

"This isn't right," she muttered aloud. "It's my wedding day, for god's sake."

_I'm marrying the man I love…right?_

Right. Of course. How could she not love him, the man who worshipped and adored her, who would do anything for her, who was little more than her helpless slave?

Satisfied that her thoughts were finally in check, the bride looked in the full-length mirror once more. A slender, pale 22-year-old stared back at her with solemn brown eyes. It was the same reflection she'd known for years- chin-length black hair, bloodless skin, semi-expressionless face. Only the gray silk gown was new, and the matching veil.

Gray had been a compromise, she remembered. "Mom couldn't deal with a bride in black," he'd said. "Could you maybe…"

And she'd gone along, of course, because this was the Man of Her Dreams. He saw her as she was and still wanted to marry her. Not to mention that she loved him.

"I love him," she said to herself, and watched the reflection's lips curve upward in a hesitant smile. The fact that it didn't reach her eyes was staunchly ignored.

Turning back to the table for her bouquet, she paused with one hand touching the petals of a rose. Another compromise.

"_Look, thorns are traditional. They're not my favorite, but Mother carried them, and Grandma, and her mother…it's just a thing."_

"_Baby, come on. Roses are the flower of eternal love. Could you maybe…"_

Once again, the only thing to do had been to give in. At least they were red and white rather than pink like her future mother-in-law had suggested. Besides, wasn't marriage all about compromise?

She picked up the bouquet and stood before the mirror, letting the front part of her veil fall over her face. "You may kiss the bride," she whispered. And at that moment, it hit her that this was really happening.

She was really going to get married. After years of thinking it would never happen, that no-one would ever want her. Pretending not to care that, all around her, the perfect, blonde girls who'd always had everything were getting happy endings they didn't deserve. Admitting to herself that while it wasn't necessary, she'd rather not be alone.

They'd teased her, those girls; called her _witch_ and _freak_ and said her parents were a fluke, that weirdos like her didn't fall in love. And now she was proving them all wrong.

A thorn stabbed into her thumb and brought her back to the moment. Of course, that wasn't why she was marrying him. She was marrying him because she loved him. That was why people got married, after all.

As she examined the bead of blood, bright red against her skin, something snapped. The bride raised her hand, and swiped the cut against the bodice of her dress. A flash of red against the gray, right over her heart.

_Perfect._

A perfect dress on a perfect bride for a perfect wedding, the perfect end to a perfect story-

Someone knocked on the door, bringing her scattered thoughts back once again. She slumped in the chair, feeling dazed, as if something was pounding against the walls of her mind.

"Wednesday? Darling, may I come in?"

"Y-yes, Mother," she replied. _Come on; get a grip._

The door creaked open, letting in both May sunshine and her mother. Morticia's face was impassive, mercifully devoid of the tears Wednesday had expected. Once safely out of the sun, the older woman removed the filmy black veil that shaded her face.

"Why you have to do this on such a miserable day-" she began. Wednesday sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Mother, I told you. My mother-in-law wanted June, so we compromised."

Morticia's lip curled. "Your mother-in-law isn't the one getting married."

"Do you have to make this complicated? You know they're not like us," the bride said.

"Yes." Morticia glanced around the room, taking in the hideous wallpaper and delicate, whitewashed furnishings. "That's becoming more and more evident."

"Mother…" Wednesday's voice took on a warning tone.

"Relax, my pet; I'll behave myself," her mother replied, throwing up her hands in a gesture of surrender. That or exasperation, but Wednesday chose to interpret it as the former. She glanced into the mirror one last time.

"How long until-"

"About five minutes. That's why I came to get you." Morticia swept closer to her daughter, until she, too was visible in the mirror. The contrast between them- one in clinging black, the other in a gray dress full enough to require a small hoopskirt- made the younger woman uneasy in a way she couldn't define.

Normally, she wanted to look as different from her mother as possible, but today something was wrong.

Morticia sighed, sweeping the front of the veil back over the tiara holding it in place. "Oh, my dear. I can't believe this day has come."

Wednesday rolled her eyes. "Not you, too, please."

"Darling, you know I never doubted you'd find love. But this engagement happened so fast that I can't help but wonder…" She trailed off, the unspoken conclusion hanging in the air.

As if on a movie screen, her fiancé's proposal flashed before Wednesday's eyes. The diamond ring, the traditional one-knee pose, the words… it was idealistic, but somehow she'd hoped for something more than "Could you maybe consider…?"

"One long string of 'Could you maybe's," she muttered under her breath. Morticia raised an eyebrow.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." Letting the veil fall in front of her face once more, she took a deep breath. "Let's go."

As they neared the ballroom of the Art Deco mansion-turned-event space, the strains of piano music reached her ears. Pachelbel's Canon In D. The bridesmaids, four girls she barely knew and whose names she still couldn't keep straight, would be processing down the aisle right now in their emerald-green dresses. And the rows of seats on one side of the massive room would be oddly empty.

Very few Addamses had wanted to attend the wedding, and she couldn't pretend not to know why.

They'd reached the mahogany double doors; the flower girl, a cherubic little girl with brown curls and a jade-green dress, smiled at Wednesday before checking her basket of rose petals. Gomez rose from a chair beside the doors.

"Paloma," he said, and Wednesday could see tears in his eyes.

"Father."

She took his arm and Morticia slipped through a side door to take her seat. As the flower girl started down the aisle to the first notes of the classic wedding march, Gomez smiled up at her. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," she said quietly. And they started forward.

The walk down the aisle was probably supposed to seem long. It always did to brides in books, she'd noticed, on the rare occasion any book she'd read had involved a wedding. But to Wednesday, it took no time at all. Within what felt like the space of one breath, she was standing beside her husband-to-be.

"Nervous?" he whispered, with that goofy grin that she told herself she found endearing.

"No."

And then the officiant began to speak. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…"

Wednesday barely heard the words. Whatever had been pounding in her mind was more insistent now, practically screaming, a thought just out of reach. She glanced at the man next to her, and it grew even stronger.

"I do."

_My turn_. She tried to pay attention as the elderly man rattled off a list of obligations and promises. And around the second mention of love, the stifled thought finally broke free.

_I don't love him._

"I do."

"Then I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

As he pulled her close and pressed his lips to hers, she told herself it had been an errant thought. After all, this was her true love, her perfect man, her husband- her Joel.

* * *

**A/N: **Before you hang me in effigy, please notice that this is the PROLOGUE of the story. Meaning there's more to come. And your opinions are greatly appreciated. *points to review button*


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **I didn't intend to finish this chapter tonight, but I just kept writing and the rest is history.

* * *

"Joel."

"Yes?"

The rain pattered softly against the windowsill, drenching the tiny roses in their pots on the back porch. Usually, Wednesday loved rain in particular and overcast days in general. Today was different. She continued staring out the kitchen window, leaning on the counter with her chin against her hand.

"We've been married for three years."

"Three years and two hours, my dark angel."

"Why-" she began before she could stop herself. Joel glanced up from his crossword puzzle.

"Why what?" he asked.

Wednesday shook her head and sighed quietly. "Nothing."

And the kitchen was silent again, except for the ticking of the Black Forest cuckoo clock on the wall. That in itself was nothing unusual for a Saturday morning, even when both husband and wife were at home. Which they almost always were.

She knew the room by heart, without even turning around to look at it. Eggshell-colored walls, maple-wood counters wrapping around the walls with matching cabinets beneath. A large ceramic plate brought back by Selma Glicker from a trip to France, painted in the bright blues and yellows typical for Provence. Pots and pans hanging from a ceiling rack above the stove. And the clock on the wall, tracking the passage of the day with its omnipresent tick…tick…tick…

"Wednesday?"

Another woman might have jumped, but the man with his hand now on her shoulder felt only a slight tensing of her muscles at his voice. "What?"

Joel chuckled, pushing his glasses further up his nose. "Relax, _fleur d'morte_. It's just me." He leaned over, pressing his lips to her cheek.

"Joel…" she began, and pulled away slightly. Her husband frowned.

"What's wrong, dearest?"

"It's just…why do you call me that?"

The young man enfolded her in his arms, his argyle sweater-vest rough against her cheek. "Because I love you, Wednesday. Don't most couples use pet names?"

"Yes, but-" She pulled away and wandered over to the sink. As she talked, she began scrubbing at the breakfast dishes. "-dark angel, _fleur d'morte_, goddess of death; it's always like something my father would say."

Joel followed her, once again touching her shoulder; she fought the unwelcome urge to shove him back towards the table. "Beloved, you're an exceptional woman. Ordinary endearments wouldn't suffice to express how much I adore you."

A plate cracked in her hands.

"I mean," he went on, "you're not just some blonde bimbo. You're like some ancient sorceress, like Circe or Medea."

She muttered something in an undertone, and Joel leaned in closer. "What was that?"

"I said," Wednesday repeated as she attacked a mug with a wire brush, "that I like kids."

"What?" His brow furrowed in confusion. Turning off the water and leaning against the cool metal on her elbows, his wife shot him an exasperated look.

"Medea killed her own children. I like kids. Ergo, I'm not really like her, am I?"

Joel blinked; his expression remained uncertain, and the urge to push him redoubled- accompanied by a steadily increasing desire to scream. "But she was a Greek sorceress, right? Sorry, I'm not good with all that mythology stuff."

Beginning to stack plates in a cabinet with rather more force than was necessary, she replied, "Why try if you don't know what you're talking about?"

"Wednesday-"

"Joel, please just shut up!" His eyes widened with hurt behind the glasses, and she tried to tell herself she felt a twinge of guilt rather than slight relief of the pressure in her mind. With a sigh, she reached forward to touch his cheek.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's just been a long day."

Maybe because of the contact- initiated by her for once –or maybe for another reason, Joel didn't point out that it was only 9:30 in the morning. Instead, he drew her hand to his lips and kissed her palm.

"Think nothing of it, my princess of shadows. I understand that sometimes it can be hard to be patient with me- only an average human and in no way worthy of you."

Doing her best to ignore the words, Wednesday rubbed her free hand against the front of her dress to dry it. Then, she closed the distance between them and slipped her arm around Joel's shoulders. Taking his cue from her, he let go of her hand and pulled her into a tight embrace.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured against her cheek. Then he kissed her- ignoring or not noticing that she barely seemed to kiss him back.

"Joel…"

_You love him. He's your husband and you love him._

"I love you."

"I love you too," he whispered, "_cara mia_."

Suddenly, her mind flooded with childhood memories of her parents wrapped around each other, kissing passionately, tangoing across the conservatory for no real reason, and speaking in heated whispers. Memories accompanied by a burst of nausea and the certainty that if he touched her one more time, she would break his hand.

"Let _go_ of me!" And, as she'd been wanting to all morning, Wednesday pushed him as hard as she could. He staggered back like a marionette with cut strings; for some reason, watching him stumble over one of the wicker chairs sent her into a fit of hysterical laughter.

"Wednesday-"

"Oh my god," she stammered, gasping for breath. "Oh my god." And there seemed to be nothing else to say.

Joel stood, straightening his tie, and cautiously approached her. "My black rose, are you alright?"

"Don't." He froze in his tracks.

"Don't what?"

"Don't come near me. Don't touch me. And don't call me stupid pet names."

His eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute. Stupid? You told me not to call you 'baby,' and I figured I knew what you'd like."

That started more laughter, but a bit more subdued this time. Wednesday pushed past him and headed for the hallway that led to the foyer. "So the choices are 'baby' or '_fleur d'morte_.' Good to know."

As she continued down the hall, Joel followed her, shaking his head. "What's wrong with you? This isn't like you at all."

"No," she said, "it's not like you want me to be." In front of the hall tree, she paused and turned to face him.

"Do you have any idea what I'm talking about?" If he said 'yes,' this could be fixed. She could hold him and kiss him and tell him that she was so very sorry and it would never happen again. They could say it had been a mistake and let the moment pass.

"Not really," he said.

_And a year from now, we could be sitting in the exact same positions in the exact same kitchen, with me saying, "We've been married for four years."_

"Exactly." Without further comment, she took her jacket from one of the tree's "branches," shrugging it on and quickly fastening the silver buttons that arced diagonally across the front.

"Where are you going?" he asked as she started for the door.

"Out," was the only reply. "Don't wait up."

He started to say something that was lost to the sound of the rain and the door shutting behind her.

* * *

Central Park in the rain was nothing new to Wednesday. She'd spent years staring at it out the window of her childhood bedroom, watching the mist blur the outline of New York City into a distant blob of darker gray against the sky. Sitting on a bench in a fairly public area, however, was a more novel experience.

She still didn't know why she'd come here. It wasn't proximity. The park had been several blocks of walking and a subway ride away from the house. And it wasn't familiarity; most days, this was the last place she wanted to be.

_Well, maybe next-to-last_, she thought grudgingly. Pedestrians hurried past under umbrellas; most had their heads down, but a few turned to stare at her. Sitting unprotected and soaked in the rain might not have been the best way to stay inconspicuous.

"Augh! Get off me, you stupid bird!"

Then again, it beat running down the path with a pigeon hot on one's trail. The young man now under attack by rat-with-wings seemed to have been asking for it, judging by the bag of bread crumbs clutched in his hand. But she decided to take pity on him.

Pulling a small dagger from her jacket pocket, she took aim and threw. It hit the pigeon, who went down with an oddly indignant noise.

Its victim stood breathing heavily, staring at the winged menace as it bled out into the mud. "Thanks," he said.

"You're welcome." She looked up from her quarry, and their eyes met.

Wednesday's first instinct was to laugh. The man she'd just saved looked about her age, maybe a bit older; he was average height and skinny, with disheveled brown hair and hazel eyes. She thought she could see a Spiderman t-shirt under his blue raincoat. And, of course, there was the bag of bread crumbs.

"You're not supposed to feed them."

"What?" Her voice seemed to bring him back to reality. _Interesting._

"The pigeons," she explained, poking the dead bird with the toe of her boot. "If you feed them, they just get more insistent."

He raised an eyebrow. "And fearless, apparently."

Wednesday nodded, and was surprised when the young man stepped closer. People who weren't family, her few friends, or her husband didn't often approach her voluntarily. She still hadn't figured out why, exactly; maybe they were just more perceptive than she gave them credit for.

But whatever the reason, the sight of a very pale girl dressed all in black who kept weapons in her pockets didn't seem to faze this man.

"I didn't catch your name."

She should have turned and walked away; she'd done her random act of salvation-from-pigeon and now it was time to go home and smooth things over with Joel. But something made her stay.

"Wednesday Addams."

He smiled. "Nice to meet you. I'm Lucas Beineke."

* * *

**A/N: **If anyone seriously thought I was going to maintain the status quo of the fic, I'm rather worried about their critical thinking skills. Come on; how could I NOT write WxL?


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Two updates in as many days. I'm as surprised as you are, but inspiration just keeps coming. Also, please permit me to announce for no particular reason that my room is bloody freezing. Damn lack of insulation in the floor!

* * *

Lucas Beineke was unlike anyone she'd ever known. And that was saying something.

Thirty minutes into their conversation, he made her laugh- probably a record in all the interactions she'd had over twenty-five years of life. As the laughter died away, she met his gaze so intently that he forgot to watch his step and ended up ankle-deep in a large puddle.

"Damnit!" He jumped out of it and began ineffectually trying to shake water off his sneaker. Wednesday looked away, shaking her head.

"Who are you?"

"I feel like that should be my line," he replied, once again looking her over. "You don't…um…exactly look like…"

This elicited another dry chuckle. "The type to be hanging out in Central Park? The type to be part of modern society in general? The type to be married?"

"You're married?" Lucas stopped short, forcing her to do the same or risk leaving him behind. Rolling her eyes, Wednesday held up her left hand. Even in the dim, post-rain light, the gold ring on her third finger was clearly visible.

"Three years today."

"Oh." He began walking again. "Well, congratulations."

Something about his tone didn't seem quite right; Wednesday followed him, walking quickly to catch up and dodging puddles.

"What?"

"What what?"

An exasperated sigh. "You sound surprised."

"No," Lucas said as she finally came up even with him again. "Well, yes, but not for the reason you probably think."

When she raised her eyebrows, he continued. "It's just that most people I know wouldn't have gotten married at…how old are you?"

_Mother would be scandalized_. But Wednesday wasn't her mother. "Twenty-five."

"Yeah. How many twenty-two-year-olds do that?"

She blinked. "A surprisingly large number. That's how old my parents were when they got married. Granted, they only dated for about a week…"

"A week?" Lucas repeated, his eyes widening.

An older man walking past with a stroller glanced at Wednesday and quickened her pace; the young woman bit her lip, but kept talking. "Yes. They were surprised I waited six months to marry my husband."

Her conversational partner let out a low whistle. "I can't imagine marrying someone after only six months."

"We started dating when we were twelve."

"Oh."

There seemed to be nothing else to say, and they walked in silence for a few minutes. Until, that is, a little old lady with a walker almost ran into them.

As she turned at the last minute, wiping a bit of mud off her floral-print muumuu, she called, "You and your husband need to be more careful, young lady."

"He's not my husband!" But she was already gone, tottering down the path and mumbling about the lack of consideration young people these days had for their elders. Wednesday bit her lip and glanced at Lucas.

"Sorry about that."

He laughed. "It's fine. I'm flattered that she thought I could be married to you."

"…what?" She stared at him, and the young man's cheeks turned red.

"Oh god, did I say that out loud?"

"Yes," Wednesday replied, silently praying she wasn't about to get hit on. The only thing that could make this day worse would be some fumbling, awkward guy trying to chat her up- after being told she was married, no less. Thankfully, Lucas made his intentions clear a moment later.

"I-I just meant because you're attractive and I'm not, you know. Not that I wish- or that I'm trying to…um…"

She held up a hand to silence him. "Don't worry; I understand. Though I do have to wonder what kind of recreational drugs you're on."

"What?"

"If you think I'm attractive. A wave of the same hand indicated her body in general. "Not exactly Miss America, in case you hadn't noticed."

Lucas stared at her, holding her gaze for so long that Wednesday began to feel uncomfortable. "What?"

"Nothing," he replied. With a little shake of his head, he shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the muddy ground again. At that moment, a shaft of sunlight pierced the rapidly-moving clouds and Wednesday groaned.

"Perfect. All this _and_ it's about to get sunny."

"What's wrong with that?" he asked. She looked at him and grimaced.

"I'm not wearing sunscreen and my parasol is at home. Trust me, the sun and I aren't friends by any stretch of the imagination."

He laughed. "You _would_ use a parasol."

Wednesday rolled her eyes; if not for the fact that Lucas was almost a complete stranger, she would have smacked him. For some reason, the impulse wasn't the same as her desire to inflict serious injury on Joel, though.

"So," he continued, "what's your story? You wear all black, hate the sun, and carry knives with which to rescue strangers from rampaging pigeons. Not to mention you're wandering around Central Park, alone, on your wedding anniversary."

When the only response was silence, Lucas shrugged and kept talking. "I mean, you could just be a goth chick who had a fight with her husband, but-"

Wednesday cut him off. "I hate that word."

"Which one? Husband? Goth? Chick?"

"The last two. I'm not a bird and I don't write bad poetry on LiveJournal," she said, and kicked idly at a puddle.

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Not all goths do that, you know. It's not a bad thing."

"I'm not a goth," Wednesday insisted; he shrugged again, but the sly, crooked smile was back.

"Whatever you say." A sudden, theatrical cough into his elbow sounded a lot like the word, "denial."

That did it. Stopping abruptly in front of a cherry tree that overhung the path, she turned to face him. "Are you always this infuriating?"

"Are you always this obstinate?" he shot back.

They stared at each other for a moment, locked in a silent and somehow not-very-serious battle of wills. Surprising even herself, Wednesday looked away first.

"Fine," she said. "I grew up here."

"In the city?" he interrupted.

"In Central Park." When he looked at her doubtfully, she folded her arms over her chest. "It's true. Do you want to hear the rest or not?"

Because he stayed quiet, she continued. "My family home was built before the park was here- almost before the _city_ was here. And stop looking around; you can't see it from here. Anyway, this was my life for twenty-two years. My family…isn't exactly what you'd call normal. But they sent my younger brother and I to summer camp when we were twelve, because our baby brother's nanny was a serial killer. Don't look at me like that," she added as his expression grew even more dubious; "It's a long story. But that's where I met Joel, and the rest is history."

"Joel being your husband?" Lucas asked. She nodded.

"The one you don't want to spend your anniversary with?" The look he got in reply made him feel like the pigeon she'd killed an hour before.

"Enough about me. This is obviously your first time in New York…" she trailed off, looking at him expectantly. Lucas took his sweet time answering, messing his hair up even more and shuffling his feet awkwardly.

Finally, he said, "It's my father."

"You're here with him?" As an overly muscular man pushed past them on a bicycle and shot the pair a dirty look, Wednesday sat down on the mostly-dry bench beneath the tree and gestured for Lucas to do the same.

"No, actually. I'm running away from him."

She gave him a long, appraising look. Just as he began to look very uncomfortable, she asked, "Businessman or dentist?"

"W-what?"

"Your father." Wednesday wiped some mud off one of her spats. "My guess is that he's trying to push you into the family business, so which is it? Businessman or dentist?"

"I- that's not-" he stammered; "how did you figure that out?"

"If he was abusive, you wouldn't want to talk about it, not to a random woman you just met an hour ago. You were trying to feed a pigeon, which suggests that you're at least a bit naïve. And you ran to New York, which, coupled with your shirt, implies idealism. And probably some degree of creativity. Ergo, you don't like the way he's trying to make your life go," she finished. Lucas rolled his eyes.

"I didn't expect to meet Sherlock Holmes today." He fiddled with the zipper on his jacked and watched a couple walk by, hand in hand, looking as if no-one else in the world existed. Staring at them, Wednesday was reminded of Joel and felt oddly guilty.

_I'm not doing anything wrong_, she reminded herself. This was just a chance encounter and conversation with a potential friend. The fact that he'd gone from "idiotic stranger" to "potential friend" in a little over an hour was something she didn't care to think about.

"Businessman. Contractor, actually," Lucas finally said.

"And you want to be…?"

"A writer." His eyes seemed to light up, and it struck her for the first time since they'd met that the man was actually somewhat attractive. Not like the muscle-bound bodybuilders or sensitive pop idols that most women drooled over, but still…

"I can imagine that went over well," she said dryly, trying to get control of her thoughts. Lucas snorted.

"Yeah. We had a huge fight and I came out here to get some space," he said.

"From where?" she asked.

"Ohio."

Wednesday couldn't help laughing yet again. "Yes, that's definitely getting some space."

Lucas nodded, and when she stopped laughing, silence stretched between them again. But somehow, it was a comfortable silence, one she didn't feel the need to break. Sitting with Lucas, watching a few drops of water fall from the tree's budding branches and splash into a puddle below, she felt more at ease than she had in years.

Finally, she pulled her phone from her pocket and glanced at the clock in the screen. Sliding it back into said pocket, she stood and glanced at Lucas.

"I should probably go. My husband…" she trailed off, but he just nodded.

"Yeah."

There was a pause, then, "It was nice meeting you."

"Likewise," he replied. Wednesday started back up the path, then turned, seized by a sudden impulse. Pulling an old receipt from her pocket, she tore off a scrap of it and began feeling around in both pockets.

"Do you have a pen?" she asked. Looking a bit confused, Lucas pulled an extremely battered Bic from his own pocket and handed it to her.

As she wrote, she said, "Here. I haven't done this often- well, ever, actually –but if you want to keep in touch…" She thrust the paper at him, with a string of numbers scrawled on it.

"That's my cell number. Call, text, whatever. I'm dying for conversation that doesn't involve melodramatic pet names every three words."

As she turned to go, Lucas called out, "Hey, wait!"

Wednesday walked back to the bench yet again. "Do you have more paper?" he asked.

"Yes, I…" The remnants of the receipt were nowhere to be found- until she looked down into the puddle at her feet and noticed the soggy paper. _It must have fallen out of my pocket. Damn._

"No. Sorry."

He hesitated for a moment, and then reached for her hand. "May I?"

"_No."_ It was what she would ordinarily say to this kind of request. But before she had time to think, the young woman heard herself saying, "Sure."

And then try very hard not to think about the fact that his hand was warm and surprisingly soft, or that he held hers far more carefully than was necessary as he wrote on it. Finally, he let go; firmly denying that she missed the contact, Wednesday looked at her palm.

"That's my number," he said. "Like you said, call or text." Suddenly, a mischievous smile crossed his face. "My gothic princess."

"Shut up," she snapped, but smiled in spite of herself. And as she walked away, the smile even grew slightly.

_It's not every day I make a friend_, she thought- trying to ignore a voice in the back of her mind that questioned just how platonic her interest really was.

* * *

**A/N:** Mwahahaha. It begins.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Shortest chapter yet, but this part was giving me trouble so I had to just get past it. Normal length will resume next time.

* * *

**Bad time? –Lucas**

**If it was any better, I'd think you were psychic. –W**

Glancing up from the small, glowing screen, she noticed that Joel had actually turned the page of his book for the first time in the past hour. Her husband had been sitting on the cream-colored sofa- what was with the Glickers' apparent light-color obsession? –for most of the evening, reading his latest self-help book. And almost since the minute she'd sat down in an armchair to read her worn copy of Salem's Lot, he'd been treating her to an in-depth description of the quack author's philosophy.

"…but the really revolutionary idea is that you have to let go of your 'self' to find your true purpose," Joel continued. Behind his glasses, the man's hazel eyes were aglow; Wednesday found herself unconsciously reminded of Lucas when he talked about writing.

_I'm married to a man whose innermost passion is self-help books._ Diverse interests be damned; that was just sad.

Another vibration from her phone provided a welcome distraction.

**What's up? –Lucas**

Though the buzz was meant to be quieter than a text tone, it still cut through Joel's monologue. He glanced at the phone.

"Who are you texting, darling?" he asked in a puzzled tone. She calmly began typing out a reply; switching the phone off suddenly and looking up at him would have seemed suspicious.

"Just a friend. Go on."

**Joel is reading self-help books at me. –W**

The next vibration was almost immediate. **How romantic. –Lucas**

At her involuntary chuckle, Joel looked up again. His eyes narrowed slightly. "Wednesday, are you even listening to a word I'm saying?"

"Yes," she replied. "You're talking about how Dr. Madden thinks that the ego is actually a societal construct that hinders growth." Her fingers moved along with her words.

**He's talking about how Dr. Madden thinks the ego is actually a societal construct that hinders growth. Whatever that means. –W**

The next time she looked up, Joel was staring at her with a hurt expression. She raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"His name is Dr. Fine," the young man replied. "Dr. Madden was the last book I read, and he was a complete lunatic."

"I seem to remember you idolizing him just the same way at the time," she muttered under her breath.

**No, that's Dr. Fine. My mom read his book. He's an idiot, but most of them are. –Lucas**

**I know. I've had to listen to every one of them for-**

Suddenly, the phone was snatched away; she looked up to see Joel standing over her. The young woman slowly stood up, her expression menacing.

"Give that back," she said quietly. Any man who had been married to her for three years should have known that was a danger sign, but Joel just turned the other way. He began to thumb further up the conversation, reading texts from as far back as the day two months ago when she and Lucas had met. And though she couldn't see his face, his shoulders grew progressively stiffer.

Finally, he spoke, without turning around. "Lucas?"

"Joel-" Wednesday snatched the phone back, but her husband still stood there, gazing out the window. "He's a friend of mine. I met him in the park back in June."

"Your first text from him is on the night of our anniversary," he said; the amount of quiet menace in his tone surprisingly matched that in his wife's when she'd demanded her phone back. When she didn't reply, he continued.

"The night of our anniversary, when I went to bed early and you said you had a headache- as you have almost every night since our wedding."

"Joel, if you would just-"

He rounded on her, his voice rising. "Three years! Three years we've been married, and we've made love as many times."

This time, she didn't even try to speak. Instead, she slid her thumb across the lock on her phone, typed in the password, and began texting again.

**He's angry. I can't handle this. –W**

"For god's sake," Joel shouted, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her, "stop texting that… that _man_!" The last word carried such a tone of disgust that she almost laughed.

Wednesday twisted her shoulders sharply, breaking his grasp. "Need I remind you that you're a man, too?"

**Is he hurting you? –Lucas**

"I'm a man who loves you, who adores you," her husband shouted. "I'm a man who sees you for the goddess of the night you are, and he's some plebian-"

**No. I'd like to see him try, and anyway that would require him to grow a spine. –W**

The next minute, Joel was crouched on the ground, holding his cheek, a red mark blooming beneath his hand. It wasn't until the ringing in her ears began to clear that Wednesday saw the flush on her own palm and realized she had slapped him.

Joel stood, shaking. He walked back to the couch and sat down almost calmly against the off-white cushions. Carefully setting his bookmark in place, he laid the book on the mahogany coffee table. Then, still oddly composed, he turned back to his wife.

"I'll kill him," he said simply. "I'll kill any man who comes between us- any man who so much as looks at you. He doesn't deserve to kiss your feet, and yet he's poisoned your mind."

Wednesday heard herself say, "I'll kill _you_ if you try," and felt faintly surprised. When had she become more loyal to her friend than her husband?

"W-what are you saying?" Joel stammered. His composure was lost, and so was her patience.

Without speaking, the young woman left the room. She walked past the coffee table Joel had selected, past the couch that had been a wedding gift from his parents; into the hall, ignoring the pale blue paint that had been his favorite at the hardware store and the floral prints that Selma had felt no newlywed couple should be without.

_Nothing in this house is mine._

And so, once again, the obvious solution seemed to be leaving. This registered in her mind only as she was shouldering her bag, walking out the door, and shutting- not even slamming, though she didn't know why –the door behind her.

**Mind if I stop in? –W**

**Not at all. I'll see you soon. –Lucas**

* * *

**A/N: **And thus, the next chapter gets to be pure, unadulterated WxL. Praise Charles.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Update courtesy of Gleefully Wicked, who is better at effective update bugging than I am.

* * *

How could it have come to this?

New York was in the grip of sheer terror, a city whose people held their breath and stared at the night sky in fear for their lives. High above, in a cab suspended by sticky, black web strands, the young woman wondered where her life had taken a wrong turn. Her eyes widened as she stared out the window at the man being beaten to a pulp below her.

The man she loved. And now that love would kill him.

Suddenly, the cab lurched backwards. The girl screamed, and-

"You're on my arm."

"Sorry."

Lucas shifted on the couch; Wednesday moved her arm and nestled closer against his chest without taking her eyes off the screen. Easier to think about Mary Jane's latest plight than the fact that she was unabashedly cuddling her best friend. He'd been considerate enough to say nothing about it, so neither would she.

The superheroes' battle raged on, and she rolled her eyes. "This girl needs to just get superpowers already."

"Hm?" he replied.

"Think about it. She's constantly getting kidnapped and almost dying; it would make a lot of lives easier if someone would just get a mutant spider to bite her, too, or something."

With a chuckle, he reached for the remote and turned the volume down a few notches. "Maybe."

"And," she continued, looking at him over her shoulder, "then she'd be able to relate to Peter better. They wouldn't have as much tension, because they could go out and save the world together. Maybe then they'd have one common interest besides each other, and they'd fight less, and…"

She trailed off. His eyes, she suddenly realized, were brown and warm and very close. In fact, his entire face was very close. A buzzing noise seemed to fill her ears, and time slowed down. Something was very close to happening that couldn't be taken back. If she leaned back just a few inches- _no. It would destroy everything._

And then a tiny voice in her head said, _Who cares?_

Without further deliberation, Wednesday leaned back just a few inches and kissed him. Not deeply and not for long; only a brush of lips. But when she drew back, his eyes were wide. Hand shaking, he grabbed the remote again and stopped the movie.

_Oh my god. What have I done?_ Jumping off the couch, she quickly crossed the tiny living room to a chair by the door and grabbed her coat. She fumbled with the sleeves for a minute before finally getting her arms into the black wool, carefully avoiding Lucas' gaze the whole time. Buttoning her coat, she shouldered her bag and was almost to the door when he finally spoke.

"Wait." Silence was the only response.

"Wednesday, wait," he repeated.

"I'm sorry," she said, trying to keep her voice as emotionless as possible. Lucas took a step towards her and ran a hand through his hair.

"It's just- you're married."

"Funnily enough, I'd noticed," she almost snapped. To his credit, Lucas stayed calm. Taking another step forward, he reached out to touch her shoulder but thought better of it. She let her bag slip down her arm somewhat, but otherwise remained immobile as a statue.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I shouldn't have…"

"Kissed me?" the young man finished. She nodded, and he sighed.

"I'd be lying if I said I'm not glad you did."

"But as you pointed out, I'm married!" She turned on her heel, still not looking at him, and stormed back into the living room. Dropping her bag to the worn gray carpet, she began to pace back and forth quickly.

"I have a loving husband back in the suburbs, waiting for me to come home after the worst fight of our three-year marriage. I've been out almost all night, at another man's apartment- and I just kissed you! What about this doesn't scream _wrong_?" she ranted.

For a moment, Lucas watched her silently from the doorway. Then, he crossed the room and stood squarely in her path. When she stopped, he firmly grabbed her shoulders, and she tensed under his hands.

"Let. Go," she practically growled. The young poet did, but didn't get out of her way.

"Listen. Clearly, we need to talk about some things here. You wearing a path in my living room carpet doesn't help anything, so why don't we sit down-" he gestured to the couch –"and figure this out?"

Wednesday hesitated, but finally sat down hard on the brown suede cushions. Her friend joined her (without using so much force that the springs creaked). And once again, awkward silence filled the small apartment.

"So."

"So."

More silence. Crickets chirping wouldn't have been out of place, if they hadn't been in the middle of a huge city. Then, both spoke at once.

"Do you-" Lucas began, at the same time as Wednesday said, "I don't actually-". They stopped, looked at each other awkwardly, and he gestured for her to go ahead. But she just raised an eyebrow and folded her arms.

"No. You first."

"Do…do you love him?" he said. To his credit, he maintained eye contact, and Wednesday felt something turn over and tighten in her stomach. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and shrugged.

"Of course I do." Even to her, the words sounded rushed and insincere.

With a small nod, he said, "Of course. You married the man, after all. So you must love him. Sorry, stupid question."

And suddenly, she heard herself say, "Actually, that's a lie. I don't, and furthermore I've known that since our wedding day."

_There._ It was a terrible thing to say, so why did she feel better for having said it? For his part, Lucas just nodded again, but it seemed more genuine this time. He let the statement hang in the air for a minute.

"So what does that make us?" he asked.

She looked up sharply. "I'm not sure."

"I won't break up a happy marriage," he said cautiously, "so you need to be sure. If you don't love him because of me, you should probably go home now."

Wednesday thought for a moment. "No," she said at last. "I don't think I ever loved him."

"Really?"

"I swear on the graves of my ancestors, Lucas."

Almost without her noticing, they'd been getting slowly but steadily closer to each other as they spoke. By now, the two were no more than a foot apart. They were staring into each other's eyes, and Wednesday had the strange feeling that the rest of the apartment- or the whole city –had disappeared. The moment was so predictable that she almost wanted to laugh at how clichéd it was, but she never got the chance.

It seemed like one second they were separated and the next, in each other's arms. Lucas, she dimly realized, had moved first, but it hardly mattered. His hands were on her back, quickly travelling towards her hips and hers were clenched in his hair; she drew his face towards her and kissed him again. No chaste peck this time, either, but deeply, with him responding to her fervor in kind.

When they broke apart for air, both breathing hard, she whispered, "Care to take this somewhere more private?"

Lucas paused. "I should say no, because you're emotionally compromised. But…"

"Screw emotionally compromised," she replied. "If you're not in some state of undress within ten minutes, I might kill something."

With a sly smile, he replied, "You're my kind of crazy."

As they made their way down the hall to Lucas' tiny bedroom, Wednesday tried to feel a pang of guilt. Even the tiniest bit would have made her feel like what she was doing was less reprehensible. But all she could manage was pity for Joel- and the feeling that, for the first time in a long time, she was doing something right.

* * *

**A/N: ***12-year-old Christina Ricci voice* They had sex.

Reviews are much appreciated.


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